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| 2007/10/23 01:26:39瀏覽600｜回應2｜推薦10 | |
整個這件事都怪誕之至。小提琴本身就是古怪，脆弱，像個雪茄煙盒子的東西，必須小心處理。哎，在人家放它入匣時，很可能將它碰破。還有我的老師，他也怪得很。他有一股怪的泡菜氣味。 他將樂器交還給我，又仔細的教我一遍。我再將它塞在頷下，將另一端抓緊。我朝他看看，等著。 「現在，」他頗爲不安地說。 我緩緩地舉起弓來，將它朝下拉….。 這一次在我們這一間前面的小地下室内發出兩個可怕的喊聲。一聲是我新的小提琴上發出的，另一聲是由麥先生心裏發出的。 The whole thing was uncanny. The violin itself was a queer, fragile, cigar-boxy thing, that had to be handled most gingerly. Nothing sturdy about it. Why, a fellow was liable to crack it putting it into its case. And then my teacher, he was queer too. He had a queer pickled smell. I dare say he wasn’t queer at all really, but he seemed so to me, because he was different from the people I generally met. He was probably worth a dozen of some of them, but I didn’t know it. He was one of the violins in the philharmonic, and an excellent player; a grave, middle-aged little man-who was obliged to give lessons. He wore a black, wrinkled frock coat, and a discolored gold watch-chain. He had small, black-rimmed glasses; not tortoise-shell but thin rims of metal. His violin was dark, rich, and polished, and would do anything for him. Mine was balky and awkward, brand new, and of a light, common color. The violin is intended for persons with a passion for music. I wasn’t that kind of person. I liked to hear a band play a tune that we could march up and down to, but try as I would, I could seldom whistle such a tune afterward. My teacher didn’t know this. He greeted me as a possible genius. He taught me how to hold the contraption, tucked under my chin. I learned how to move my fingers here and there on its handle or stem. I learned how to draw the bow across the strings, and thus produce sounds….. Does a mother recall the first cry of her baby, I wonder? I still remember the strange cry at birth of that new violin. My teacher, Herr M., looked as thought he had suddenly taken a large glass of vinegar. He sucked in his breath. His lips were drawn back from his teeth, and his eyes tightly shut. Of course, he hadn’t expected my notes to be sweet at the start; but still, there was something unearthly about that first cry. He snatched the violin from me, examined it, readjusted its pegs, and comforted it gently, by drawing his own bow across it. It was only a new and not especially fine violin, but the sounds it made for him were more natural-they were classifiable sounds. They were not richly musical, but at least they had been heard before on the earth. He handed the instrument back to me with careful directions. I tucked it up under my chin again and grasped the end tight. I held my bow exactly as ordered. I looked up at him, waiting. “Now,” he said, nervously. I slowly raised the bow, drew it downward…. This time there were two dreadful cries in our little front basement. One came from my new violin and one from the heart of Herr M. |
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